In the streets below, the goons are taking shots at the staircase, and more are coming to join them. Their thin weapons emit a sizzling beam, torturous whizzing, and once striking their target, explode another spray of pulverized concrete. The stairs are crumbling fast.
Overhead, a power line leads to a warehouse across the street. I can slide along it, to the rooftop, and escape. I can? Have I gone mad? I’ll have to deal with that later—madness is a minor flaw compared to dead.
Sizzling blasts pound the staircase as I climb onto a slippery handrail. I wrestle the buckle loose and pull my belt from its loops, then slap it over the power line. Their barrage demolishes the staircase, all support drops from under my feet, and I’m left to dangle. Soaked by rain, the power line is slick, and my ride is swift.
Here comes the whizzing. Scorched air sizzles at my back, narrowly missing as I whoosh past. The belt whines, sliding along the line, carrying me to my only escape. The wet strap is slipping from my grasp, but my perilous flight is not delayed. Sailing onward, I’m almost to the rooftop.
The power line snaps, and like a rubber band, it coils away into darkness. The fall should be slight—I’ve made it. I’m over the warehouse. Over a skylight. I plunge into the fragile pane and burst through shattering glass.
* * *
Glass isn’t so tough, but too bad this floor is bare concrete. Some carpeting might have helped. Look at that, I didn’t even make a dent. And to think migraines could hurt. What migraine? That discomfort is a whisper compared to this body’s shouting pain, screaming from head to toe.
Inside the warehouse is dark, thanks to my latest stunt. Nice work busting the power line. Some light streams in through a window, but not much. The room is stuffed full of machines. Maybe drill presses. Lathes? Or grinding equipment. Rows of identical contraptions fade into darkness, all large, tall and across. Something is manufactured here, or maybe it’s a print shop.
Everything is covered by fine powder, and touching it leaves my moist fingertips spotted with dust-turned-mud. Seems the place was abandoned ages ago. No need for any remorse over the power line. The electricity was off long before I showed up.
As I examine my muddy fingertips, a dark pool collects in my open palm, then begins dripping between my fingers. Something warm, flowing from inside my coat. When I try taking it off, a sharp pain explodes like a lightning bolt, screaming from shoulder to fingertips, which have suddenly gone numb.
Aw, crap. A giant chunk of glass is sticking out of my arm.
Pain and experience are funny things. Maybe I’m going into shock, that might explain it. Here I am, arm impaled by a jagged shard, and I go about exploring the room, oblivious of the injury. But once I see the wound, see the blood, oh how the pain comes alive.
I search the dusty workbenches and find some crusty shop towels, probably full of germs or other toxic substance, but there’s no choice, I have to fix this. Using a rag for a glove, I keep from slicing my hand and give the shard a tug. Sure sounds easy, and we’ll just have to feel the pain later—pull harder. I yank the shard free and toss it to the floor where it shatters into a spray of harmless granules. Pieces that small when I hit the skylight would have been nice.
I wiggle out of the blood-soaked coat, hoping to find a minor flesh wound, but it’s just not my night. I’ve never seen so much blood, especially my own. But then, nobody sees that much of their own blood and talks about it later.
Cinched tight around my arm, the dirty shop towels serve as a crude bandage, effective enough to slow the bleeding. Hardly the work of a qualified physician, but forced to play doctor, we do our best. One crisis resolved, I’m back to the original—it won’t be long before the goon patrol shows up. As if cued by my thoughts, an abrupt scuffle downstairs signals their entry into the building. They holler to one another, something about which exits to cover, and to get upstairs, that’s where he is. Of course, they’re referring to me. If only it could be someone else.
* * *
What I need is a weapon. Let’s make this contest fair. I fumble in darkness, searching workbenches and digging through drawers, only to discover a bunch of junk. Old parts, manuals and small tools, nothing capable of much harm to anyone. A large tool chest may contain the perfect weapon, except the damn thing is locked. There could be a machete inside, or better still, a machine gun. I’d settle for a hammer.
The goons are coming. They’ve made it to the second level, smashing down doors and shouting. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I can imagine— “Where is that little weasel? I’m going to blow his entire head off!”
I need a weapon. I need that chest open.
Could the key be hidden under the chest itself? It’s not very large, and doesn’t appear all that heavy. Under the chest would be a great hiding place. Nobody would think of looking there. But I just thought to look. Right, a nobody like me. This time my logic makes perfect sense.
I tilt the chest back and reach a hand underneath. Nothing, so I reach further, then lose my grip and the chest crashes down. I take it back—this chest is plenty heavy. Add a smashed hand to my slashed arm, but something is sandwiched between my palm and the workbench—a key.
Making a guess and being right is infinitely rewarding pain relief. I don’t feel any of it other than thrilled. I hoist the chest up and seize the key to my defense.
The goons are closing in. They’re awfully noisy, knocking around furniture and banging down doors. Not a very stealthy bunch. Their boisterous approach provides a glimmer of hope. I am one, silent in a veil of darkness. They are many, loud and clumsy. I have an advantage.
Digging through the chest, I hope to find a bazooka, or better still, a magic portal that will get me the heck out of here. What is this? Some kind of puller for removing wheels or disks from machines. Maybe I could pull their brains out.
No!
Drawer after drawer, the search turns up an assortment of weird tools, little gadgets really, nothing very threatening. All hope is fading, and the approaching racket doesn’t help. This may be the end. They’ll storm in here and blow my head clean off, I can just see it now.
The last drawer seems to be stuck. Reaching under the concealed edge, I find something caught between it and the drawer above. I fiddle the thing loose and the drawer pops open. What is it? Without better light, it’s difficult to tell. A dark color, almost black, with a rough texture. Heavy, metal, and well over a foot long. A large wrench? Yes, and adjustable—an enormous adjustable wrench, for really big nuts. Just what I was looking for.
Weapon in hand, I cling to a wall, and creep toward an open doorway.
Their voices are clear, just around the corner.
“Check in here, I’ll check across the hall.”
I have reached the door. Any farther and I would be in the doorway itself.
The first goon steps in.
* * *
They all look the same, black on black. B-O-B. Bob’s the name, all with the same cheesy jacket, the same goony turtleneck, the same helmet hair.
Wielding the wrench in one hand, I draw a long swing and bring the heavy tool across Bob’s face. Bones snap and crack, he goes down, but in a dying spasm he pulls the trigger, blasting walls and shattering windows.
I dip low and prepare for the next assailant. He steps in, targeting where I was standing only seconds before. He fires into empty space, sizzling just overhead, followed by crackling that raises the hair on my scalp. I clutch the wrench with both hands—my injured arm screams, begging to hang limp and recover. Too bad, we’re in this together, me, the mind, and the body’s every limb. Survival of the whole.
With the wrench near the floor, I swing it in a wide, sweeping arc, propelling the tool with all my might. The crude weapon smashes into Bob’s ankle with a shattering crunch.
Take that, you bastard!
That’s what you get for shooting at me.
Bob reaches for his injury with both hands, as I knew he would, leaving his weapon to drop within reach. Howling in agony, he topples in the doorway for the next thug to trip over. Good, another step closer to fair.
No need for the wrench any longer, and no time for long good-byes—time for a real weapon. I drop the wrench and snatch Bob’s rifle.
Clinging to a wall, I creep through darkness, deeper into the room. I’m not far when another Bob enters and starts blasting. The goon is firing every direction like I might be a spider hanging from the ceiling, and he must take into account any possibility.
I dodge a scatter of energy beams and duck behind a workbench. The fireworks provide some light, enough to examine the rifle. The simple device is shaped as a slender rectangle, constructed from an odd material. It seems metallic, polished smooth with a deep blue sheen, but the thing is surprisingly light. A small nozzle projects from one end, and other than a trigger below and a few dials along the topside, the weapon is little more than a thin stick. The dials are likely set to destroy, based on the room’s condition. Giant craters scar the walls, many blasted clear through, open to the night outside, some even bigger than the windows. A few more like that and there won’t be any walls.
Enough of Bob’s ridiculous blasting, it’s driving me nuts, not to mention the unintelligible hollering like he’s some crazed lunatic. I sight over the workbench and squeeze the trigger. The whizzing begins, painfully loud. The beam strikes Bob in the chest and knocks him to the floor.
His blasting ends but not for long. Another Bob steps in and takes over, attacking the room as he hollers, just like the last idiot. What’s with these guys? They could shoot me but all they’re doing is tearing the room apart and making a bunch of racket. Fine, you’re next. Another squeeze of the trigger, the whizzing begins, and Bob number two goes down. Look at that—I’m a pretty good shot.
Silence is brief. From a doorway across the room, another Bob enters—he has a clear aim. The whizzing comes fast, I drop to the floor, roll on my back and dodge the blast. Hair on my forearm rises as the beam passes ever so close, but does miss, and strikes a nearby workbench, blowing it to bits scattered across the floor, sizzling and crackling. That was close—that could have been scattered bits of me sizzling.
The whizzing repeats, followed by an incoming beam. I roll across the floor dodging a barrage of scorching blasts. My injured arm throbs with pain, the bandage is coming loose, and that means bleeding to death. Not so urgent as my new crisis—one false move and there won’t be anything to bleed from.
I scramble behind a tall metal cabinet. Blasts glance the unit and reflect snaps of thunder, but to my relief, fail to destroy it. I keep low and peer around.
Across the room are the two victims of my blasts, or rather—should-be victims. One gets up and brushes off his chest as though my assault did nothing more than inconvenience him. How does that work? Next he reaches out to his buddy and helps him up, then they straighten out their jackets. I’m not so fond of this stupid rifle. I may need that wrench back.
I’ve got to figure out how this thing works, particularly, how to increase the damage. The current settings must be stun, and even that has little effect. This must work like a volume knob, clockwise means more. Okay, every dial all the way to maximum. This time they’re toast.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Someone might get hurt, including yourself.”
* * *
I whirl around to find a fellow crouched in a corner. Masked by shadows, his features are unclear, but I’m quick to notice his rumpled brown jacket, unlike the cheesy plastic kind the Bobs wear.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
The stranger creeps out of the shadows. He looks fit, not particularly young, hair shorter than mine but not cropped like the Bobs, and disheveled like he just woke up. He has the rough start of a beard, a few days unshaven. A fellow loser?
“If you fire that thing at full power,” he says, “you might kill them. Sure, after you blow out an entire wall and the building collapses. But just think, all that will probably kill you, too.”
I have to admit, he could be right. Given the destruction at a lower setting, full volume might take out an entire wall. And without a wall, yes, gravity tends to bring things down.
“Okay, but why doesn’t it work on them? It tears the walls apart, but all it does is knock them over.”
“Well sure,” he says, like I should already know. “It’s electromagnetic. Microwaves, you know. Like an oven, just more concentrated. It shakes up molecules, that’s all.”
“Look, buddy, that doesn’t explain how it blows up walls but not them. It doesn’t do a damn thing. They just get up and brush themselves off.”
“It’s the frequency,” he says, oddly calm in light of the blasts streaking across the room. “And the target, that’s all. In a body, molecules are loose, but in something hard like concrete, they’re rigid. At the right frequency, a chain reaction begins, and all the shaking makes it shatter. See?” He points to a wall just as a blast strikes and sprays debris. “Solid objects can’t take it and explode. Bodies though, they can deal with it. But it does hurt, I know, so please, stop pointing that thing at me.”
He reaches out to the rifle and directs the barrel to one side. He may be trustworthy. He seems reasonable, unlike the Bobs, and he talks like a real person, not like a robot on drugs.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”
He crawls toward the rear of the room, the farthest end from where the Bob brothers are busy having target practice. Though reluctant, I follow. He nudges a door open and we slip through, then descend a stairwell without attracting any attention. He has stealth, I admire that. Perhaps together, we may get out of this mess. Wait a minute—we?
We
are getting out of here?
“Who are you?” I ask.
He says nothing, and continues down the steps. Despite my growing concern, I keep close behind. When we reach the last step, he turns around.
“I’m Jared. What’s your name?”